Enough
by Ambikai
Summary: Sometimes it all just becomes too much - Mycroft and Sherlock apologise to one another in silence. Post 'Scandal In Belgravia' - minor, hardly any spoilers.


**Disclaimer:** I am not Stephen Moffat or Mark Gattis or the BBC or in any way possible and so therefore do not own this interpretation of Sherlock Holmes ... unfortunately.

**Author's Notes:** Firstly a belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! And minor spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia. Very minor. Nothing specific. But you have been warned. Also this piece hasn't been beta'd. Otherwise its just brotherly love - I do hope you enjoy it. :)

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><p><strong>Enough<strong>

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><p>He doesn't feel like he should be here.<p>

Not after the Woman. Not after all that. Not after his own brother tried to keep it from him, like he was a child. He shouldn't be here, but here is the thing about the word 'should' - it didn't imply he couldn't be here, or that he may not be here, or that he didn't want to be here, or even need. In fact contrary to all that he did want to be here and maybe, he did need to be here, sitting on this square rug of a carpet and staring into the darkness of his brother's house. Words were unclear like that – the subtle tone of voice, the beat of a heart couldn't convey what a written word meant.

The cold air was still around him, and his body tensed in preparation as he heard the crunch of a car wheel on gravel. The engine cut off outside but he remained as he was. Still. Perfectly still. More crunching on the gravel outside but quieter this time. The front door opened and the jangle of keys could be heard. Footsteps echoed on lonely floorboards as a briefcase was placed down, the lights flickering on with a click as the footsteps stopped. He could picture it in his minds eye: picture his brother shrugging off his over-coat, storing his umbrella away again, taking off his suit jacket and vest. Rolling up his sleeves.

When his brother did come into the room he was almost right. The overcoat, umbrella and jacket had been removed however the vest remained. Also did that mask of ice. That remained as his brother's eyes slid over him. He ignored him for the most part, moving over to the liquor cabinet. And he, just like always, sat there and observed it all. He wasn't sure how to say it after all, and knew better than to start something that he couldn't finish. But at the same time he needed to let his brother know - sorry shit fuck up my fault. That.

Mycroft poured himself a drink. Carefully and contained. The clink of ice against the tumbler was a measured one two three, while the steady if not liberal pour of Scotch was smooth and clean. It was an art in a way, a clever distraction to a stranger who didn't know better: couldn't see how tightly Mycroft was clutching at that bottle. The bottle was placed back, and Mycroft turned slowly, took a sip.

The two brothers met each other's eyes and held on.

Just like that. They just looked and knew. He read the tiny details, the added frown lines, the greying hair, and the concern that flowed out. Caring. Love. Apologies, endless apologies, some earned and many not. Sacrifice. Something that he couldn't name but was there. And in turn his brother read everything about him. His insecurities, his ego, his pride, and his apology – so many he never thought of, and so many that didn't need to be summoned. Everything. They both read each other and knew. Read each other more carefully than a lover, a mother, a friend. A level of intimacy that not even the Woman or Moriarty could ever deduce. They saw the lines of their childhood stretch out and unravel before them: Mycroft's sneaking out and Sherlock covering for him, Sherlock's experiments and Mycroft's diversions from their parents. They saw a tiny boy being shown the koi fish in their pond by his older brother.

And they saw their fights, their cutting words, their fierce rivalry.

Enough.

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft came down to sit beside him, clicking on the electric fireplace in the cold room, resting against the couch behind, and letting Sherlock lean back on his brother. Closed his eyes. Took a sip when Mycroft pressed the glass to his lips. A slow burn and warmth spread in his body. Felt the soft inhale of breath against his ear, and the gentle of rise of Mycroft's chest.

And dreamed of pirates.

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><p><strong>Fin<strong>

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> I hope you enjoyed it and I would love to hear your thoughts on this. :)


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